


Part 11: Properly

by kw20742



Series: Something Like Love [12]
Category: Broadchurch
Genre: Canon Lesbian Relationship, Developing Relationship, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Lesbian Elders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-20
Updated: 2018-09-20
Packaged: 2019-07-14 14:32:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16042394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kw20742/pseuds/kw20742
Summary: Takes place a few hours after the end of my Part 10: “Like Stone.”





	Part 11: Properly

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Courage](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6168775) by [spilled_notes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spilled_notes/pseuds/spilled_notes). 



It is well past midnight, but Maggie’s still up, in her pyjamas, curled into her comfy chair in the sitting room, laptop on her knee and a glass of wine to hand. She’s working. Ostensibly. But there’s really nothing to be done until the jury comes back with a verdict. She could balance last week’s budget, wordsmith a couple of pieces Oliver’s written for the website, do some thinking about her own editorial-in-progress for next week’s edition.

Whether Joe is found guilty or not (and she doesn’t even want to think about what happens if he’s not), Broadchurch has been irrevocably changed, and it’s her job to be among those community leaders who will help steer the course, make productive suggestions, and encourage moving forward after this past year of total shit and despair. The problem is that she has no earthly idea what to write, what to communicate to her readers across Dorset about what’s next for this place that’s become her home.

She’s not even sure what’s next for herself, for fuck’s sake. The new newsroom is barely adequate for a home-based business, let alone a weekly local paper. She can see the writing on the damn wall, petal, and it ain’t pretty. Will she have a job next year? Next month? Should she jump ship before they dump her overboard? And, if so, what would she do instead? There’s no work for a journalist in or near Broadchurch if you don’t work at the _Echo_.

And Olly’s bound to want to move on after the trial. His justifiably relentless promotion of his own byline is sure to land him in good stead with one of the major dailies. She makes a mental note to put in a call to her old pal and colleague, Len Danvers, at the _Herald_. Olly deserves it; he’s worked hard and willingly learned most of what she’s got to teach him.

Unfortunately, with all their penny pinching, those corporate big shots at head office aren’t likely to let her replace him. Silly numpties. So, she’d do well to start strategizing about and planning for the day when she’s operating solo down here.

She rolls her eyes. What a shit show. But she’s got to write _something_.

So, it’s not that there’s not work to be done. But her mind keeps drifting, her eyes resting in the middle distance. On nothing in particular. On the slight shadow cast by the bookcase in the corner. On the dent in the wood-planked floor where a chap accidentally dropped a wrench during the delivery and assembly of the new sofa a couple of years ago. On the fine layer of dust that’s settled atop the frame that holds a photo of she and her dad at her university graduation. She just can’t seem to concentrate.

Because she also doesn’t know what’s going to happen with Jocelyn. She made her demand clearly: Let me in. But whether Jocelyn is ready, even able, to do it remains to be seen.

She should go to bed, she knows. Get some sleep. Morning will come soon enough, and with it what she hopes will be one last day at Wessex Crown Court before being able to get her normal life back. The life for which she moved to Broadchurch in the first place—even before she learned that a certain QC had grown up here and still called it home.

But she doesn’t want to sleep. She’s not sure she’d be able to anyway. Because, quite unexpectedly, that life no longer seems imagineable without the friendship, the love, of her favourite barrister. And she’s afraid that tomorrow may bring with it a realization that, for all her intellect and cleverness, Jocelyn cannot understand what Maggie needs from her or, even worse, isn’t willing to provide it.

So, she wants to hold onto this day, this feeling, this hope, this faith. In Jocelyn. For just a little while longer.

Chasing a big gulp of wine with a heavy sigh, she goes back to her computer, clicks on an email from Olly, opens the attached draft, and begins to read.

Maggie only realizes that her attention has drifted yet again when a soft knock at the front door disturbs her absent-minded reverie. It’s so unobtrusive, she’s not entirely sure she didn’t imagine it. Because there’s only one person that it could be, would be at this time of night, and it’s quite possible that her wanting, wishing mind is playing tricks on her. But she folds the screen down on her laptop, sets it on the sidetable next to her half-drunk glass of wine, and pads over to the little foyer anyway. Just in case.

But there it is again, the knock, just as her fingers are releasing the deadbolt, her hand on the doorknob. She opens the door, and, indeed, it is Jocelyn, grinning rather awkwardly.

After all, she’s only been to Maggie’s house, properly, once before, for dinner, shortly after Maggie moved in. It was their one Christmas Eve together, and Jocelyn remembers hardly anything about that night except that she could barely keep her hands to herself. All she wanted to do was touch Maggie, caress her, and then ask for more.

And the last time they both stood here, in this spot on Maggie’s doorstep, in almost the exact same places, was a week later, on that New Year’s Eve fifteen years ago. That night when Jocelyn finally kissed Maggie. And Maggie was more than eager to kiss her back.

This fact is not lost on either of them.

For a moment, all Maggie can do is stare, but then, glancing out to Jocelyn’s car parked behind hers in the gravel driveway, she realizes: “You drove.” It’s not a question.

“It was five minutes,” Jocelyn explains, trying to preempt a scolding.

“You didn’t learn your lesson the last time?” Maggie presses acerbically.

“I’ve lived here all my life, Maggie. I could drive these streets blindfolded.”

She scowls at her. “But not blind _ed_. No driving at night. You promised.”

“Alright, I know. You’re right. I’m sorry.” Jocelyn pushes her bottom lip out into an exaggerated frown, eyebrows raised and eyes wide, taking full advantage of what she knows full well to be a glamourously doleful pout. “Can I come in anyway?”

Still patently displeased, but admittedly overjoyed that Jocelyn is here, Maggie steps back and silently welcomes her inside, locking the door against the summer night.

When she turns around, Jocelyn has removed her coat and shoes; underneath she’s in her pyjamas: satin bottoms and a matching top, both the sultry copper colour of a pinot grigio rosé, with dark brown fluffy socks, as if she’s already been to bed, but then changed her mind.

“Lace,” Maggie thinks gleefully to herself, “ _and_ silk,” remembering rather fondly now their almost-row in her office a couple of weeks before the start of the trial. She had wondered briefly then what she might find in Jocelyn Knight’s knickers drawer. She grins. She hadn’t even entertained the notion that it could be ‘and’ rather than ‘or,’ and those pyjamas most definitely belong to a person with knickers in both fabrics.

Resisting (for the moment) the urge to find out once and for all, Maggie heads down the hall for the kitchen. She puts the kettle on and reaches up for two clean mugs. She can feel Jocelyn hovering impatiently in the threshold behind her and teases over her shoulder as she begins preparing the teapot, “Well, sit down, then.”

But Jocelyn doesn’t. Instead, she sidles up confidently behind Maggie, fitting the front of her body snugly into Maggie’s curves, pinning her tenderly, but securely, to the counter, and wrapping her arms around Maggie’s waist.

Maggie half laughs, half breathes out an astonished “Well, hello, you!” and leans readily back into Jocelyn’s embrace, delighted to let her take the lead on this journey they’ve begun again in earnest. They’ve already traveled farther together in this one day than they did in those six months, fifteen years ago.

Jocelyn’s breath is warm as she slowly, precisely, methodically (Maggie would have expected no less) kisses her way from Maggie’s temple to her earlobe and down the side of her neck. Jocelyn rests her chin playfully on Maggie’s left shoulder, fingers working to untie the loose knot of Maggie’s robe, while her eyes drift down, greedy for a glimpse (finally) of the top of those lovely breasts, just visable under the deep v-neck of Maggie’s white cotton t-shirt.

“What are you doing here?” Maggie asks breathlessly, grinning broadly, trying to concentrate on measuring loose tea into the strainer as the front of her robe falls open to Jocelyn’s searching fingers. “I thought we agreed to take tonight. Take some space. To think.”

Jocelyn gently turns Maggie around in her arms so that she can see her face. And she wants Maggie to see hers, too. And her eyes. To appreciate the conviction, the promise there. She authoritatively takes the spoon from Maggie’s hand and places it on the counter behind them.

“I’m done thinking,” Jocelyn announces, her voice low and sultry, “I’ve done too much thinking, for far too long. I want to _feel_.”

And then her hands, still on Maggie’s waist inside her robe, begin rucking up the back of Maggie’s t-shirt in a fervent quest to find bare skin.

Maggie’s exuberant chortle at Jocelyn’s zeal turns quickly into a slow moan of exquisite pleasure as Jocelyn’s palms, hot and soft, splay across the small of Maggie’s back, the tips of her fingers nudging just under the waistband of Maggie’s plaid cotton pyjama pants.

Maggie’s body is responding entirely, euphorically, all on its own now, without any interference from her brain. One hand is tangled in Jocelyn’s hair, the other is on her waist as Jocelyn peppers with soft kisses Maggie’s forehead, her cheeks, the tip of her nose, her jaw line, and the soft spot on her neck, just under her ear. At which point, the dull throb that’s been pulsing low and steady, deep in Maggie’s belly since at least this morning, when Ben delivered Jocelyn’s message to her, begins to press quite urgently. Thank goodness for the counter behind her, is her one conscious thought, because she’s honestly not quite sure what’s holding her up.

And then Jocelyn finally, deliberately, thoroughly kisses Maggie full on the lips, as her fingers knead the tops of Maggie’s buttocks to pull their bodies even closer together. Their kiss deepens until Maggie tastes salt and draws back.

Tears are streaming down Jocelyn’s face, but she’s smiling. And Maggie returns Jocelyn’s beautiful smile, wrapping solid, reassuring arms around her, caressing the space between her shoulder blades and burying her nose in Jocelyn’s hair, breathing in her delicious scent, that lovely combination of lavender, salty sea air, and summer sunshine.

Jocelyn hugs Maggie tightly and murmurs into her ear, “There’s so much I want to say, Maggie, so much I want to tell you. So much you _need_ to know… So much I want to know about you…”

She reaches a hand up to gently guide Maggie’s head off her shoulder so she can see into her eyes. “I know you don’t trust me. And I understand why.”

Jocelyn exhales, shaking her head as if trying to rid herself once and for all of the terrified part of her that broke Maggie’s heart. “I wish words were good enough to explain to you how much I regret...” She traces her finger along Maggie’s jawline, her thumb coming to rest just at the corner of Maggie’s bottom lip. “But I love you, and I don’t want to spend another minute without you.”

Jocelyn’s soft little grin, accompanied by her raw vulnerability and the magnificent newness of this bold candor, brings an unexpected rush of joy, of relief, and now Maggie’s eyes are wet, too.

They stand like that, face to face, one of Jocelyn’s hands resting gently, hopefully, almost tentatively, on Maggie’s hip, the other cradling her chin with such adoration and tenderness, and Maggie leaning against her own kitchen counter, engaged in a silent internal negotiation between her heart and her head, her intense longing and her rational self.

It hasn’t even been four hours, let alone the full night that would’ve turned into most of tomorrow that Maggie wanted Jocelyn to have to think about what she’s asking of her. What she needs. How can she be sure Jocelyn even understands the seismic shift Maggie requires of her? To make this work?

“Well, say something,” Jocelyn requests anxiously. And, she notes, for the second time this evening. Why, she wonders to herself, has Maggie chosen this night, of all nights, to become unexpectedly mute? She can’t help but grin at the irony.

“What?” Maggie asks, eyes narrowing suspiciously. She hadn’t realized any of this is funny.

“It’s just…” Jocelyn snorts in jest, “Usually I can’t get you to _stop_ talking.”

“Well, for fuck’s sake, Jocelyn!” Maggie cries, exasperated and amused in equal measure, “I mean…” Shaking her head, she gesticulates exaggeratedly to indicate what she can’t quite articulate: It’s all a bit much. Her mind is buzzing, her body has been fizzy with desire all day, and now Jocelyn is here, loving her, touching her in ways she once dreamed of but had to make herself let go.

Maggie splutters and stammers, tries to begin, to explain, to respond, and then falters again. At which point she can’t help but laugh at herself, at the odd strangeness of being rendered inarticulate. The world (well, west Dorset, at least) turns on her words every week, and to be unable to communicate in this moment all that she’s thinking and feeling—especially _feeling_ —is profoundly disconcerting. But a bit funny, too. Ironic even. So she can’t help but join Jocelyn in the joke.

And then, quite without warning (even to herself), Maggie gives in. Because it’s gone one, and she’s in her kitchen, in the middle of the night, laughing with her brilliant and beautiful barrister. And isn’t that the point? Isn’t that what she’s been wanting? Waiting for?

So she decides, once and for all, to let her heart win. She’s already survived loving and losing so many times in this life, and you don’t find happiness by being afraid, petal. Which is precisely what she would’ve told Jocelyn all those years ago. Had she given her the opportunity. In any case, you only live once, and, as Lil said, that one life’s already way too short. Maggie also notes entirely without sarcasm, it’s getting shorter every bloody day.

So, she takes a breath and says, quite simply, “I need you to be sure this time, Jocelyn.” And then she smirks, rolling her eyes exasperatedly, “Because, honestly, I’m too old and cranky for this emotional roller coaster shit.”

Jocelyn guffaws and splutters in spite of herself, more grateful than she can express, and deeply relieved, for the return of Maggie’s customary sardonic mirth.

She inhales, prepared to respond in the affirmative, but Maggie interrupts.

“No, wait! Look: I’m not asking for wedding rings; as you say, we have a lot to talk about, to learn yet. For a start,” she pauses to emphasise the importance of this next point, “I won’t hide. And I need you to be absolutely certain you’re comfortable with that.”

“I am.”

Maggie shakes her head skeptically. “You’ve been in the closet, Jocelyn. You don’t know what it can sometimes be like. And we’re public figures, you and I. Visible. People know us. And this is Broadchurch, after all. I don’t think you quite—”

“I love you. I don’t care who knows or what they say about it.”

“Even our friends,” Maggie presses the point, “They will want to know, show their support. And you’re so protective of your privacy…”

“I’m done hiding, Maggie. Just… Done. Being afraid,” Jocelyn affirms while taking both Maggie’s hands in her own, “and if you give me another chance to love you— _properly_ this time—I will take it.”

In that instant, the tea kettle shrills, and Maggie jumps. They laugh, breathless, both caught up in each other, in this new moment.

It is finally Jocelyn who, quite unhurriedly, leans heavily into and partially around Maggie to turn off the gas, breaking their eye contact only to make sure her fingers reach for the correct knob. She deliberately prolongs the sliding of satin across cotton and is rewarded for her efforts with a tiny whimper and a view of Maggie’s scrumptiously taught nipples underneath her t-shirt. Jocelyn smirks, eyes glinting affectionately. Then, recalling Maggie’s little maneuver of a few hours earlier, she murmurs provocatively into her ear, “I don’t want any tea.” She cants her hips upward and into Maggie’s. “I only want you.”

In that instant, there in her tiny kitchen, leaning against the counter, the tea kettle’s sharp whistle slowly waning on the hob behind them, Maggie all but melts into Jocelyn’s arms. All the mistrust, all the hurt, all the wasted years, are finally shedding themselves in a renewed torrent of tears that she makes no effort to either hide, stop, or brush away. There is more to discuss, so much more to say, to learn. But for now, there is only she and Jocelyn in her kitchen. Again.

With such tenderness and care, Jocelyn uses the backs of her fingers to brush away Maggie’s tears, her thumb tracing those beautiful laugh lines in the process. She leans in to cement a kiss on Maggie’s lips, whispering, “And I am sorry. For everything.”

“It’s done,” Maggie proclaims softly, “None of it matters anymore,” she promises, brushing an errant curl back behind Jocelyn’s ear and leaning in for a kiss of her own.

Jocelyn slides her fingers to the nape of Maggie’s neck, gently cradling her jaw, long fingers making a gentle tangle in short strands of blonde hair. Thoroughly mesmerized, Maggie closes her eyes, intensifying their kiss as she reaches to grasp Jocelyn’s hips. Jocelyn’s little moan as their tongues meet causes Maggie to shudder slightly, and there’s a delicious anticipatory tug in that hot place between her thighs as she considers what it will be like to make the unflappable Jocelyn Knight come.

“So,” Maggie asks with a conspiratorial grin, “what did you mean by ‘properly?’”

 

***  
It is Jocelyn who wakes first, knees tucked in behind Maggie’s, her arm draped lovingly over Maggie’s waist, breasts tight against her back.

This. This is where she belongs. She is as certain of it now as she was that New Year’s Eve sitting up on their bench. When Maggie’s head was on her shoulder and her cheek was resting on Maggie’s hair, and she could think of nowhere else she’d rather be, then or ever. They just fit somehow. Intellects. Bodies. Interests. Ways of being in the world. She knew it then; she knows it now. And she silently chastises herself again for wasting all those years being afraid, not trusting her own heart.

But this morning, in the early half-light, that regret is no longer mixed with desolation and futile longing. Instead, there is hope and giddy delight and anticipation. For the exquisite beauty of all they’ve just shared, and for what their future holds. Together.

“Good morning, my love,” she whispers, planting a soft kiss to Maggie’s temple.

Eyes still closed, Maggie grins, squirms contentedly, and stretches her limbs into Jocelyn’s. Her thighs, she notes, are pleasantly stiff, and there’s a corresponding pulse in her core as she gleefully recalls their late night antics.

She opens her eyes just a bit, squinting against the pale grey dawn. “Are you always up this early?”

“Usually. Especially since menopause. I don’t really sleep much anymore.”

Maggie chuckles softly, “Well, that’s lucky for me, isn’t it!”

Jocelyn brushes her lips against Maggie’s cheek, her neck, so tempted to let it turn into more. But she can’t. She arrived here those few hours ago in just her pyjamas, with only her phone and her keys. And she’s got to be back at the courthouse by the time the jury goes back into deliberations at half nine.

“I have to go home,” she murmers into Maggie’s ear, “get ready for court.” She rolls over to sit up, lifting a heap of copper satin from where it got squished in between the mattress and the footboard.

With that, Maggie is pulled vehemently back into the real world. “Do you think there’ll be a verdict today?”

“I hope so.”

“I hope it’s the right one.”

Jocelyn sighs, unwilling to entertain any other possibility, but knowing full well (as does Maggie) that the longer the jury is out, the more likely it is she’s failed to make her case.

Maggie watches Jocelyn’s bare back disappear as she swings one arm and then the other into her pyjama top. And as she puts long legs into silvery silk knickers trimmed in lace, Maggie can’t help let slip a triumphant little giggle .

Buttoning her top, Jocelyn turns around, eyebrows raised, an inquisitive smirk playing at the corner of those soft lips.

“It’s just,” Maggie languidly explains, “I’ve been wondering lately if your knickers would be lace or silk. And,” she flips her hair out of her eyes and sticks her chin out in impish defiance, “now I know. So I’m just gonna to lie here for a little while and enjoy watching you wear them.” She grins, “It’s almost as nice as helping you get out of them.”

“Well,” Jocelyn harrumphs emphatically, a little flush spreading to her cheeks, “if that’s what you think about when you’re supposed to be reporting the news, it explains why your entire industry’s gone to the dogs.”

But there’s a mischievous flash in her eyes as she intentionally, for Maggie’s benefit, draws out the process of slipping one leg and then the other into her pyjama pants.

Fully awake now, Maggie surveys all this, eyes glinting. “I’ve also been wondering what sort of toys you’ve got in that knickers drawer of yours.”

And now Jocelyn is genuinely blushing as she barks a single, sharp laugh. She’s just not accustomed to discussing the contents of her lingerie drawer. With anyone. Let alone Maggie Radcliffe. Of whom she’s dreamt and imagined many times over the years while using those very toys.

Maggie, though, is waiting patiently for an answer, eyebrows raised, lips turned gently upward into a smirk that’s clearly a challenge.

And never one to turn away from such tantalizing bait, even though she recognizes full well that journalist Maggie has tricked her into confirming the existence of said toys in the first place, Jocelyn replies, quite simply, “Why not come over tonight and see for yourself?”

Taking Jocelyn’s hand and rubbing her thumb softly over the soft skin there, Maggie replies, “I’d like that.”

Suddenly shy as she finishes her impromptu reverse strip tease, Jocelyn grabs her phone off the nightstand, checks to see how much charge it’s got left, and asks with a little inkling of doubt, of disbelief, “I’ll see you later, then?”

Maggie slides herself over to where Jocelyn is standing at the side of the bed and pulls her down to sit next to her, to put a hand firmly to her waist, to kiss her. “You can count on it. You’re stuck with me, remember?”

“I love you, Maggie Radcliffe,” Jocelyn whispers as she kisses Maggie back. “It’s so nice to finally be able to say it out loud.”

“It’s so nice to finally be able to hear it,” Maggie responds, beaming. “Now, go,” she commands, playfully pushing Jocelyn out of her bed, “Be brilliant.”

“Always.”

And Jocelyn’s not joking. Because she always is.

Just at the last minute, though, as Maggie hears Jocelyn grab her coat of the hook by the door in the little foyer, Maggie shouts, “Careful driving!”

“Yes, dear,” Jocelyn replies with a huff, but Maggie can hear the smile, the love, in her voice.


End file.
